Edge: Ten Grand

Edge glanced at the third finger on the right hand of Luis Aviles, but could ask no further questions as a  shadow fell across him and he looked up to see Matador standing over him. The bandit chief stooped to test each knot, nodded his satisfaction at their security.

“You did well, gringo,” he said, gesturing with the blunderbuss. “Come, join us in the shade to drink some cool water.  We will return in an hour to see the healthful effect of the sun upon our compadre.”

It was high noon now and the lips of the old man were already beginning to crust with sunburn.  But he made no further plea for mercy and his expression as he returned the evil grin of the bandit chief was one of iron determination. Edge saw Matador’s expression darken at this new side of Luis’ character. But then the blunderbuss came up and Edge moved across to where the bandits waited, lounging in the tree shade, sucking at the necks of their water canteens. But there were no canteens on Edge’s horse and he was not offered a drink by any of the men.

They sat for perhaps thirty minutes, talking idly amongst themselves at first, but then lapsing into silence. All but one completely ignored Edge, who was concentrating his attention upon Luis Aviles as the old man suffered out in the baking sun.  But the American was aware of the interest of the pock-marked Torres and of the way he continually fingered the knife at his waist.  Finally, the disease-scarred bandit spoke.

“El Matador?”

The bandit chief had been dozing, face hidden by the tilt of his sombrero. But he came awake at his name and pushed up the brim, looked questioningly at Torres.

“It is a long time since I have practiced with my knife.  I am fearful my skill will grow less from neglect.”

The other bandits were suddenly alive with interest, anticipating some entertainment to break the monotony of the wait.  Matador saw the focus of Torres’ attention and his dark eyes locked upon those of Edge. The familiar evil grin spread across his young face.

“I am not sure that the Amerieano knows that which he says he knows,” the chief said slowly.  “But we must keep him alive In case he does—and the old man fries to his death.”

“Obliged,” Edge said.

“But,” Matador continued. “You are right, Torres. You are our most skilled fighter with the knife and your art is most valuable to us.”  His grin broadened. “You may cut him as many times as you like, but he must not die.  If he does, you will die, too.”  He patted the stock of his blunderbuss. “There are other knife fighters in Mexico.”

Edge looked back at Torres, saw from the smile on the man’s face that he did not fear for his life.  He was confident that his skill could reduce Edge to a bloody pulp without causing his opponent to die. Torres drew his knife, a long bladed dagger, honed on both sides and needle sharp at the point.

“What about me?” Edge asked, snapping a quick glance at Matador.

“It is a pity,” the bandit chief said with a shrug. “But we cannot spare another weapon for you.  Try not to get too cut up about it.”

As the bandits laughed at the joke, Torres leapt to his feet and lunged. Edge went sideways fast, springing to his feet.

“A real sharp character,” he muttered as the blade flashed by his head.

“You’ll get the point,” Matador laughed.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

 

 

EDGE’S lithe body weaved from side to side and his feet danced with amazing agility at each lunge of the bandit Torres.  At first the scarred face had been wreathed in a smile, his teeth and eyes flashing as brightly as the polished blade of his knife. But it did not take him many seconds to realize the defensive skill of his adversary and his expression darkened with his awareness. Edge did not smile: his eyes glinted from between narrowed lids, ever watchful for a sign to betray the next move of the man with the knife and his lips were mostly set in a straight, firm line only splitting open to gulp in a fresh supply of air upon each occasion he evaded the lunge of the weapon. The watching bandits, too, underwent an abrupt change of mood. At first they had yelled ecstatic encouragement to Torres, anticipating a spurt of red blood to announce the completion of each thrust.  But, as time and time again the lean, hard body parried the attack they started to chide their fellow bandit, tossing out insults to his skill with a knife.

Edge, his face showing no sign of what he was thinking, welcomed the altered attitude of the watchers. For Torres, already angry at his own failure to make an early strike, was pushed deeper into his rage by the epithets thrown at him.  He began to curse softly under his breath and his lunges became more frequent so that his timing went awry and nine out of ten of the thrusts were such that Edge could avoid them with complete ease. The man’s breathing became ragged and as Edge drew the fight out of the shadow, into the hard brightness of the sun, Torres began to sweat freely, had often to raise a hand and brush the stinging salt from his eyes.